


Stop The Apocalypse, I Want To Get Off

by BipolarMolar



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Body Swap, Car Sex, Comfort Sex, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Masturbation Interruptus, Mirrors, Oil Gland Kink, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Picnics, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Bus Ride (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Sex in a Car, Unrequited Love, Wet Dream, Wing Kink, Wing Oil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 02:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BipolarMolar/pseuds/BipolarMolar
Summary: All my slashy non-kinkmeme Aziraphale/Crowley one-shots, housed in one place. Each chapter will be a different sexy story, featuring our favourite odd couple.  If you have a kink you'd like to see in future chapters, let me know and I'll see if I can work it in. LATEST CHAPTER: WING KINK.





	1. Admiration

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Остановите Апокалипсис, я сойду](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22752763) by [Reya_Dawnbringer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reya_Dawnbringer/pseuds/Reya_Dawnbringer), [WTF Good Omens 2020 (team_Good_Omens)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/team_Good_Omens/pseuds/WTF%20Good%20Omens%202020)

> During the body swap. When Crowley and Aziraphale swap bodies, Crowley thinks it’s the perfect time to explore Aziraphale’s body. But unfortunately, Crowley is forbidden from undressing it. So he talks, instead. This chapter is one-sided unrequited love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Index:  
Chapter 1: Admiration (Crowley bodyswapped with Aziraphale, dirty talk)  
Chapter 2: Gas, Grass Or Ass (A/C handjob in Bentley)  
Chapter 3: You Can Stay At My Place...If You Like (Service top Crowlet comforting Aziraphale)  
Chapter 4: First Kiss (kissing)  
Chapter 5: Dream A Little Dream Of Me (Aziraphale watches Crowley have an erotic dream  
Chapter 6: Crowley Wings It (Wing Kink)

Okay, the world had almost ended and okay, the trouble wasn’t over. And yes, both the legions of hell and heaven were supposedly coming to rumble Crowley and Aziraphale, according to the prophecies of the only book Crowley would consider reading. But. He’d received the best present he could ask for.

“So, I’ll spend the night at your flat and you spend the night at the shop!” Aziraphale said. The body he was currently inhabiting was tall, lean and pale, encased in black jeans and a black jacket. It also was not his own.

“Sure. There’s no saying how long we’ll need to do this for,” Crowley said, discreetly running his hands down his chest when Aziraphale wasn’t looking. God, Aziraphale’s body was so soft and warm. He loved the way the stomach rounded slightly. He wanted to bury his face in it. Not that such a thing was possible, seeing how it was currently his stomach. He wondered if this body would give him Aziraphale’s appetite. For food. Aziraphale had never expressed a hunger for...anything else.

“I’d like to set some ground rules while we’re in each other’s bodies. Firstly, return it to me in the same condition as you got it. I don’t want to be hungover or with a new haircut or any of that.”

“Fine. Seems reasonable.”

“Secondly, no being rude to customers or other humans. I know what you can be like,”

Crowley stuck his tongue out at Aziraphale’s back.

“Thirdly, no getting undressed. So, no showers, no changing my clothes, nothing,”

“Wait! That’s not fair!”

“Those are my terms,” Aziraphale said. “Not sure why you’d want to undress while in my body anyway,”

That struck him as an odd comment, but he chose to ignore it, still pondering a way to make the angel grant him permission to disrobe.

He needled, wheedled and even begged at one point, but Aziraphale wouldn’t budge. Crowley sulked but he didn’t want to keep pushing; Aziraphale would want to know why this was so important to him. It didn’t occur for him to agree to his terms and then go against them. He was a demon, he wasn’t a monster. Well, okay, he sort of was a monster but even monsters had standards.

As long as he didn’t remove any clothing, it should be fine.

* * *

He found himself in Aziraphale’s cosy little bedroom, tucked away at the back of the shop, and oh, how he delighted in being in such a private place. His first point of call was Aziraphale’s bed - he pressed his face into the sheets and inhaled deeply, but to his disappointment, the sheets barely smelt of him. It shouldn’t surprise him, Aziraphale didn’t sleep. Although he did read in bed, apparently, judging by the books on the bedside table.

Aziraphale’s wardrobe was depressingly sparse, and he didn’t have any exciting angelic contraband anywhere in the room. The only thing that perked up Crowley’s spirit was the standing mirror, near the foot of the bed. He could use that.

He threw himself down on the covers, letting his legs hang over the edge of the bed. Perfect, he had a clear view of his body. He tried a smile, and almost laughed; he didn’t think he’d ever seen Aziraphale grin so widely. His teeth were nicely shaped. His tongue was very pink. He’d seen glimpses of that tongue before, mainly, when the angel was eating. Licking cream off his lips as he bit into a profiterole, or working between the tines of a fork to scoop up the last drops of tomato and mascarpone sauce. Pink, wet, throbbing muscle, so obscene amongst those pretty white teeth and that innocent, sexless smile. He laughed, but it was Aziraphale’s tinkling giggle that worked its way out of that pretty mouth, not Crowley’s guttural bark of a laugh. He sounded just like him. What else could he make this body say?

“Oh, Crowley…” Not quite right. Sounded too sardonic.

He tried again. Concentrating on pouring sweetness into every letter. Widened his eyes and beamed at the reflection. Aziraphale looked so happy to see him.

“Oh, Crowley, you’re ssssso…” No, that wasn’t right. The sibilant hiss of his serpentine tongue was ruining the illusion. He let his eyes fall shut briefly, while he conjured up memories of his dearest friend. Wrapped himself up in Aziraphale’s voice, echoing through his memories. Opened his eyes and tried again.

“Crowley, you shouldn’t tempt me like this,” That was better. That actually sounded like something the angel would say. “I’m an angel, I shouldn’t think of you this way…” He licked his lips, waiting for inspiration to hit him. “You’re wild, Crowley, you’re dangerous. I shouldn’t want this and yet...I do.”

He let his legs fall open. It was slightly uncomfortable to keep those thick thighs closed anyway. He spread them open, trying to make the gesture look slutty. A juxtaposition with Aziraphale’s cherubic face.

“I want you to destroy me…” He palmed his crotch through his trousers. He was burning to unzip those unfashionable trousers and curl his fingers around Aziraphale’s cock, feel the length and reassuring weight of it in his hands. But he couldn’t. Because he’d promised Aziraphale he wouldn’t remove any clothing.

He ground his palm harder against his cock and was rewarded with a pleasant friction that sent tingles through his body.

“Fuck me!” In six thousand years, he’d never heard the angel swear. It was quite novel, hearing that brutal, staccato word burst out of those perfect pink lips. He liked it so much, he said it a few times, rubbing harder. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, Crowley, fuck me ‘til I scream! Ruin me for anyone else!”

He figured rolling up his sleeve wouldn’t count as undressing. He bit down hard on the meat of one creamy forearm and moaned, his voice muffled. “Mark me, own me.”

His eyes found their reflection and fuck, Aziraphale had never gazed at him with raw lust before. He wanted those eyes on him forever. “Spend eternity with me, my dear,” he cooed, the angel’s beatific voice shimmering in waves as it swam in his ears. “I love you, Crowley.”

“Crowley!” He jerked his head up. He hadn’t said that.

* * *

To see his own body standing in the doorway, scowling at him with narrowed serpentine eyes was a strange feeling. How many people had been on the receiving end of that glare?

“Angel, I can explain-”

Aziraphale stalked closer, his golden gaze burning Crowley’s face. He was just grateful Aziraphale hadn’t thought to look down; Crowley’s erection still throbbed urgently. “What are you doing to my body?”

“I was - I’m sorry-”

“You were telling yourself you love...yourself. Are you really that self-absorbed?”

“What? No!”

Aziraphale grinned, and on Crowley’s face, it looks positively evil. “I suppose you kiss your mirror goodnight, don’t you?”

Crowley thought it would be prudent to cross his legs. The pressure of a shapely thigh against his crotch made him stifle a moan. He tried for speech. “No, I was - look, I-”

“I only came to get a book for some light reading. I wasn’t prepared for how long this night would feel. You’re acting strange, you know. Stranger than normal.”

He lied. Because he had to. “I’m just not used to being in your body. Navigation is tricky.”

Aziraphale agreed to that, and departed after a long rant about how Crowley was too tall and his legs were too long, that Aziraphale felt unsteady on them and had to duck under doorways. Crowley watched his friend leave, a tall, leggy man bumbling along in a gait that didn’t match his body, and he sighed. He could have told him what he’d really been doing. He could have told him he loved him. But Crowley, for all his theatrics and daredevil acts, for his reckless driving and smart mouth, he wasn’t brave. Not when dealing with love. So he waited until sunrise, when the day would begin and they could walk through the streets, wearing each other’s skin. And if he spent those hours, gazing at the mirror and whispering sweet nothings, well, that was his business, wasn’t it?


	2. Gas, Grass Or Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale comes across the phrase "Gas, grass or ass,". After Crowley explains what it means, Aziraphale thinks he should pay him back for all those free lifts in the Bentley.

Crowley liked to consider himself a fairly intelligent being, okay, maybe not on God’s level, but who was? But when compared to the other demons, Hastur and Ligur in particular (Beelzbub was pretty on the ball) he ran rings around them. Before he was ousted from Hell’s employment, Satan had seemed to think so as well, praising him for his ability to analyse the human psyche and decide what strings to pull to unstitch a human completely. So yes, he was secure in the knowledge that he was a smartie pants, thank you very much.

But when it came to deciphering Aziraphale’s moods, he was woefully ignorant.

Who knew what emotions were swimming in those lovely blue eyes? Who knew what thoughts were churning in that big (but obstinate) brain, hidden under those blond curls? Crowley didn’t know. Even after all this time.

So when Aziraphale was idly turning a page in a dog-eared edition of  _ Wuthering Heights _ while Crowley helped himself to the angel’s wine, he couldn't possibly have predicted that the next words to leave Aziraphale’s mouth were “Crowley, what does ‘gas, grass or ass’ mean?”

Crowley’s hands fumbled with the bottle for a moment, but he composed himself quickly. “Uh, why do you want to - you didn’t read it in that book, did you? Blimey, Bronte was a bit ahead of her time.”

Aziraphale tutted. “No, of course not. I saw it in a magazine. Does it refer to agriculture? Grass, donkeys.”   
  


“Um, no. It’s a - a dirty thing. Sinful. More the sort of thing my lot would know about than yours.”

“Oh. Well, what does it mean?”

Crowley threw himself on the sofa next to Aziraphale. “You’re sure you want to know? Okaaay. It means that when somebody drives you somewhere, you offer them a...service. As thanks. Grass means hemp, gas means petrol and ass means - means arse. You know. Sex.”

His mind’s eye conjured up an image of an indignant Aziraphale, cheeks stained pink, brow furrowed and mouth puckered disapprovingly. He cast a sideways glance but disappointingly, Aziraphale’s face was blank of expression. Well, he looked thoughtful, but when didn’t he? He always considered things deeply.

“Oh. Is that something humans do?”

“I guess. I think some of them do.”

Mercifully, Aziraphale didn’t bring it up again and Crowley was able to put it out of his mind. What an awkward conversation  _ that _ had been.

* * *

They were going on a picnic. Crowley could hardly believe it, but it had been the angel’s idea so of course, he’d agreed. Aziraphale had become almost delirious with excitement, wandering through Marks and Spencers in a dream, throwing packs of mini sausage rolls and scotch eggs into a trolley. Crowley had listlessly followed behind, pushing the trolley. He was uninterested in the food aisles but grabbed some bottles of wine to keep the sausage rolls company. He eyed the other shoppers. They were all struggling with the self-checkout machines. Well, they should. Those dastardly machines were one of Crowley’s own inventions. That, and wobbly trolleys.

“I purchased the most darling hamper yesterday, red and white gingham. We can use it again!”

Hmm, that made it sound like this wouldn’t be a one-time thing. He pictured Aziraphale sprawled out on the grass, all white and cream and English Rose on green. The sun shining down on his perfect face.

* * *

The picnic had been nice, actually. Aziraphale wasn’t fazed by the fact Crowley didn’t eat anything; he simply ate Crowley’s share for him. There was something oddly satisfying about watching Aziraphale swallow a whole jam roly-poly in one sitting. A part of him, and it wasn’t a part that he liked to acknowledge, tugged at him, whispering thoughts of how wide Aziraphale’s mouth was, how much he could fit in there. No, he dismissed the thought. He was merely admiring Aziraphale’s impressive feat of oral contortion. And that was speaking as a creature that could actually unhinge his jaw. Game recognises game.

Crowley helped himself to the wine though and then had a snooze in the sun, while Aziraphale read his book. He sobered up before they left, preparing himself for the long drive home.

* * *

Evening was setting in, a chill was in the air. Crowley settled back in his seat in the Bentley, as Aziraphale fiddled with his seatbelt, balancing his book on his lap.

“There’s a lot of nice parks in London. I’m quite fond of Green Park,” Aziraphale said, as they drove away.

“It’s green, it’s a park. What more could you want?” Crowley mumbled distractedly, waiting for a break in traffic. Damn evening commuters. 

“I had a lovely time today.  _ Thank you _ ,”   
  


“Yeah, yeah, don’t get soppy on me,” Crowley shot back, but inwardly, he hugged the praise to himself. It was these softly spoken words of appreciation issued from the angel’s lips that he treasured. He felt rather like one of his plants, but instead of being tethered to the sod, he was tethered to this remarkable angel sat beside him. He spared a sideways glance. This remarkable immortal soldier of God’s righteousness, who had a smear of jam on his top lip.

“Let me get that for you, angel,” he swiped his thumb across Aziraphale’s lip.

Aziraphale let him, his breath hot on Crowley’s hand. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically husky. “Thank you, Crowley. For driving me...everywhere.”

Something in him warmed at the kind words. His ragged edges always seemed smoother, less sore when bathed in Aziraphale’s goodness. Whatever sickness plagued him, something he’d been riddled with since before God had enough and booted him downstairs, Aziraphale was the cure. A panacea and he didn’t even know it.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said and meant it. It was his pleasure, driving this dotty, naive but absolutely brilliant angel around London, that was his pleasure. Rather like Aziraphale’s love affair with food, doing acts of service that made his angel smile brought about a deep satisfaction in Crowley. A satisfaction that started somewhere in his chest and sank down into his dead bones, warming him from the inside out.

He was distracted, driving and thinking, the afternoon sun in his eyes, despite the sunglasses that he didn’t immediately notice the butterfly-light touch, a hand resting on his - 

_ Oh.  _

His mind spun wildly with possibilities. Aziraphale was trying to brush off a spider. Aziraphale had had a sudden and first-time bout of restless limb syndrome. Aziraphale had mistakenly reached for Crowley when he’d been aiming to place his hand on his own leg-

No, no, that wasn’t his leg. Aziraphale had quite deliberately placed his hand on Crowley’s crotch. Not just placed his hand there, but curled his fingers around Crowley’s-

“Ngk,” Crowley said. Given the current situation, he rather thought he should be congratulated on managing to say even that.

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked him, quite placidly, as though he wasn’t fondling Crowley’s cock through his trousers.

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley ground out, as the car lurched forward, concerned by Crowley’s tense grip on the wheel. Aziraphale tightened his grip on the appendage. “I’m absolutely blooming, angel.”

He didn’t dare risk a glance to the side, but peripheral vision showed a blurred glimpse of the angel resolutely gazing forward, at the view beyond the front window. It wasn’t much of a view, unless you like traffic jams.

Aziraphale’s hand was an inquisitive thing, fingers poking curiously at the bulge in Crowley’s jeans, rather like a dog sniffing a rabbit hole. He’d managed to get the zip undone.

_ Satan, save my soul. _ This couldn’t be happening. Aziraphale stroked him through the trousers and Crowley groaned under his breath, parting his legs a little, locked in by the footwell. All those years, all this yearning, cursed with emotion and nowhere to unload it, cursed with love for his enemy. And now, on the road, a Vauxhall stuck in front of them and a Citroen stuck behind, Aziraphale was  _ touching  _ him, those thick fingers curling around his cock and  _ teasing  _ him, like it was some dumb human porno and it would be  _ so _ easy to let his arm drop down, and forcibly  _ push _ Aziraphale’s hand down his trousers. So he did.

This is really happening, he thought, giving a risky little tilt of his hips, so Aziraphale’s hand was thrust deeper into the fabric of his jeans. Bless that angel for battling the tight fabric, there can’t have been much room to maneuver but he was really trying, stroking Crowley’s dick like it was some exotic fabric.

“Harder,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road for a sign that things were going to start moving again. Not that he wanted them to. What he wanted was to kiss Aziraphale, to find out what those plump, pillowy lips felt like under his, what tricks that greedy mouth could do. But the angel was keeping his eyes on the road and his spare hand on the dashboard, so this cold, impersonal hand job was all Crowley was going to get.

He could live with that.

_ Ah, here we go, _ the angel’s ministrations were more forceful now, and fuck, that was what he needed, a hard jerk around on his cock, a tug that seemed to go right through him, send a jolt through his body like an electric shot. The pulls on his cock seemed smoother now, there wasn’t as much of a drag of skin, and he felt the wetness of pre-come leaking out of him onto Aziraphale’s fingers.

He lent back, ignoring the road, focusing only on jerking his hips up to meet each tug, groaning aloud at each sweet pull. 

Aziraphale’s breathing was hushed, a soft accompaniment to Crowley’s own throaty moans. The car seemed to be so full of noise, the breathing, the moaning, the faint static from the Bentley's radio in between stations. The smell of his arousal and his own demonic scent, something ashy was pungent, permeating every fibre of the car.

The vision of candy-coloured cars in front of him was blurring as pleasure neared. He gave a few desperate thrusts into the angel’s warm, soft hand. He should have warned him he was close, but then Aziraphale should have warned him he was going to do this. A final hot pull on him undid him, coming hard with a grunt, hot seed spilling over onto Aziraphale’s palm.

The mess was there and then it wasn’t - an angel’s hasty miracle. At least he wasn’t going to have to drive with sticky trousers but he frowned at Aziraphale withdrawing his hand. He felt cold without that hand there.

They settled into silence, Crowley feeling oddly disgruntled despite the orgasm. Aziraphale seemed complacent enough, his hands now returned to turning the pages of his book as if they hadn’t been working Crowley into pieces a few minutes before.

Crowley wasn’t complaining, he’d been waiting for some sort of advance in their relationship for thousands of years but...what had brought this on?

The book. It reminded him of a previous conversation, where Aziraphale had lazily turned the pages and asked him a question he’d never thought the angel capable of formulating.

He groaned. “Is this - what you just...did, because of that gas, grass and ass thing? You know that’s just a joke humans say? You don’t have to actually...do the thing. Ugh,”

Aziraphale paused. “I’m, I’m sorry, I truly thought this was something you wanted?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course I do, but - I only want it if you want it. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t wanna do. It shouldn’t feel like an obligation to you.”   
  


“And if I  _ do _ want it? With you? If it’s not an obligation? If I want it very much?”

Crowley exhaled, trying not to grin too hard. “Angel, let’s go back to mine. I should return the favour.”

Aziraphale smiled and Crowley ducked his head, hiding a grin. They drove on in companionable silence as the sky darkened.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. You Can Stay At My Place...If You Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the scene where Aziraphale stays at Crowley's, when (as far as they know) the bookshop is burnt down.

“You can stay at my place...if you like.”

  
Aziraphale looks at him and for one moment, Crowley thinks he’s going to say no. Thinks he’d rather wait out in the morning in the cooling rubble of his bookshop, and what a thought that would be, that his oldest friend would rather stay  _ there _ than with  _ him. _ But although Aziraphale doesn’t verbally accept, or even nod, his eyes soften, showing acceptance to Crowley’s offer. And when the bus stops in front of them, he meekly follows Crowley up the steps.

As they take their seats, Aziraphale reaches for him, takes his hand in his and Crowley’s heart leaps.

Their hands stay connected for the rest of the ride. Crowley hopes his touch is an anchor, something reassuring that keeps the angel grounded. Aziraphale is pale in the sickly light of the bus, and too quiet, relieved that the world didn’t end, yes, but he’s already lost so much today, they both have. Crowley squeezes his hand in what he hopes is a comforting way, and is relieved when he gets a squeeze back.

* * *

  
  


Aziraphale doesn’t say much about Crowley’s flat, although he does smile a little when he sees the plants. Crowley swells with pride; all the threats had been worth it, the plants were beautiful. He hoped they reminded him of Eden.

Crowley breaks out the wine, as they sit on his sofa. If there was ever a time to get drunk, it was now. Aziraphale has shown him the little scrap of paper, Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy and they discuss what it means, what they must do. It feels good to have a plan, to feel like they’re doing something. Eventually, they’ve exhausted the subject and neither of them wants to talk of Hell, or Heaven, or Earth or a burning bookshop or a burning car. So Aziraphale speaks about books instead.

Aziraphale talks at length, although as the hours pass by and the wine bottles grow lighter, his voice begins to waver, the words slurring together. He speaks of books and bindings, the rich smell of ink and paper, the feel of cracking open a new book and running your fingers across the smooth pages. Of having a book so old and worn, it falls open at the lightest touch.

Crowley nods and listens, commits the words to memory because he’s not much of a reader but Aziraphale’s passion makes him want to be. He knows of the earthy smell of old books because that’s what Aziraphale always smells like. He’s so used to sticking his tongue out to taste the air, bringing in the taste of cocoa and old books, Aziraphale’s individual scent. He wants to roll himself up in Dickens and Bronte, Sartre and Chaucer and a million different books until he smells like Aziraphale. He’d read forever if he had to.

Aziraphale speaks with such passion, such love when he talks like this. Crowley can’t think of anything he, himself could speak about that would ignite such a passion in his words. Well, that’s a lie. He can think of one thing.

Aziraphale breaks off abruptly and seems shocked when tears gather in his eyes. Crowley supposes he’s never cried before. Crowley has cried. When he Fell. When he thought Aziraphale was dead. Some humans say crying is a feeling of relief but it never felt that way for him. It felt like failure. If anybody needs some relief, it’s Aziraphale, so Crowley hopes the tears fall that way for him.

“I’m - oh dear, I appear to be-”

Crowley gently wipes a tear from Aziraphale’s warm cheek. “Crying. It’s okay.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. His cheeks redden under the tears raining down. Even his nose looks pinker and he’s so beautiful, Crowley wonders why he was blessed with such a gift. 

“I feel - is this how humans feel when they cry? It’s  _ wretched, _ Crowley…”

  
“I know. But it helps. Of course, it never seemed to help the humans in Hell, they’d cry buckets. But then, they knew that was  _ it _ for them. Nothing was ever going to improve, they were stuck there...”

“Never going to see a sunny day again.”

  
“Yeah. But we’re talking about the worst humans in history, so I don’t feel too bad for them!”

Aziraphale gasped out a laugh, looking a little better. “No, I suppose not!” He paused for a moment and sighed. “Humans deal with loss every day. They lose friends, partners, children. And here I am, blubbering over a bookshop.”

Crowley wants to say something reassuring, but the words don’t come. Earlier this morning, he’d thought he’d lost his best friend. To know it was only the bookshop that had burnt was a relief. He thinks of how he felt to see his Bentley in flames, a hunk of burning metal that was rapidly collapsing under his gaze. He’d felt a sickness in his gut, a strange sort of hollowness inside him, something he’d felt once before, millennia ago, when he’d first found himself in Hell, scorched and shaken, no longer full of God’s love. Hollow, yes. Ragged. He reaches out a hand to grab hold of Aziraphale’s sleeve. He hadn’t wanted him to feel that way.

“I should be happy. We saved the world.” Aziraphale looks at him desperately, seeking some reassurance Crowley isn’t sure he can offer. He doesn’t have the words, Aziraphale is the sweet, comforting one, the articulate one. He’s the one with the words, Crowley is the one with the actions.

So he takes action instead.

Their lips meet and he melts at the touch of soft, silken lips that have never been kissed. He likes to think these lips have been created to meld with his, because they fit so perfectly. The mouth is soft and full where his is thin and hard. Aziraphale’s body is soft and round where his is slender and shapeless. He thinks he’s been waiting for this moment since he was first breathed into being.

“Let me,” Crowley murmurs, his lips brushing Aziraphale’s ear and his angel lets him. Lets him push him down gently, so he falls back on the sofa. Lets his long fingers fumble with unfamiliar buttons and buckles, Aziraphale’s waistcoat and shirt. Until both sides of the shirt are parted and all that’s left is soft, pale skin for Crowley to kiss and touch, mark and claim.

“Do you want me to stop?” Crowley asks, trying to be gentle but even the softest whisper his lips can muster sound too loud and harsh to his ears. He asks because he has to, but he feels like he’ll discorporate if Aziraphale says yes.

But Aziraphale whispers “No,” against his lips and the relief is instantaneous and overpowering. He collapses onto his dear friend’s body, skin touching skin, Crowley’s body covering his. He wishes he could cloak him in his body, hide him from Heaven.

Aziraphale is pliant, his warm body soft and giving, even as he’s taking. Even when he’s thrusting into Crowley’s mouth, the taste of salt on Crowley’s tongue, he’s blessing him with something special, something golden. He’s giving Crowley a gift and Crowley is the one taking it.

His angel is still crying and it breaks Crowley’s heart, mewling as Crowley touches him gently, kisses him sweetly and takes him in the night. Pushes into that tightness, feels velvet walls hugging him, pulling him in. Part of him feels this isn’t right, this isn’t the time for them, it’s not how he pictured it, but Aziraphale’s clinging to him so tightly, pulling him closer, drawing him in. He couldn’t stop now if he wanted to. And his lover is whispering into Crowley’s neck about how he’s _wanted this for so long-_ and_ I never thought -_ and _do you have any idea how good you look when you’re drunk -_ _you taste of wine -_

Crowley pressed wet kisses into Aziraphale’s neck. He bites the flesh he finds there, he wants to know his angel is still alive, that he didn’t burn in that bookshop. He sobs curse words and promises into that soft throat, licks where the pulse jumps, bites the Adam's apple. 

Lovers. Is that what they are now? If Aziraphale is a bookshop owner and an epicure and a book lover and a music lover...what does that make Crowley? Just a lover. A lover of Aziraphale? He thinks he can handle that. If that is his only passion in his existence, then that’s what he wants to be known for.

He rests his head on his lover’s chest and feels fingers mussing his hair. It feels nice. 

The morning will come soon, but however long it takes will be not long enough.


	4. First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Armagedidn't, Aziraphale and Crowley sit drinking in Aziraphale's shop. The angel can't help but wonder what Crowley's tongue feels like...
> 
> A quick kissing ficlet, to tide you over until I'm able to upload a longer chapter.

They’d got into the wine again. Oh, how Aziraphale loved these lazy afternoons in his shop. Especially now, content to witness the world through the bookshop’s windows, see all the bodies walking through, umbrellas and mobile phones, damp shopping bags. Hear the whistle of the wind and the insistent  _ tap tap tap  _ of the raindrops on the pavement. The earth was safe. Its bumbling inhabitants were safe, generations of hairless apes, lovely, lovely humans were safe for a long time. They’d done it.

He looked across, to where a tall, pale man with russet hair and dark sunglasses lounged in an armchair. They’d done the impossible and he felt delirious, reckless with excitement at their success.

Aziraphale smiled giddily, rocking his glass, to watch the contents swirling inside. Perhaps it was the wine that emboldened him, but he felt it harmless enough to spill a secret to his oldest, dearest friend. “You know, I always wondered what that forked tongue of yours felt like,”

Crowley laughed. “Seriously? Why?”

Aziraphale batted away the scoff like it was tangible, with an airy flick of his fingers. “I don’t rightly know. I suppose I would see it in your mouth when you’re in snake form and I wanted to..touch it.”

The demon raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on his elbows. “Any particular part of you that you’d want to touch it with?”   


“With my hand! With my finger. Really, Crowley.”   


“Course, course. That’s what I meant. You...you can. If you want.”

“I - really? You won’t think I’m strange?”

“I already think you’re strange. Give it a go.” 

Crowley slipped off his sunglasses, and crawled over to where Aziraphale sat. To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley planted himself square on the angel’s lap, slinging one long leg on either side of Aziraphale’s hips. Crowley’s body ran cooler than Aziraphale’s, some little quirk of his serpentine biology but even so, his thighs felt very hot where they sandwiched Aziraphale’s hips. There wasn’t really the room for both of them on this chair.

“You’re not at all shy, are you?” Aziraphale said. The luminous eyes with the razor-thin pupils watched him silently. Aziraphale swallowed.

Crowley leant down, his tie hanging down between them, lazily swinging like a pendulum. Something in his face seemed to shift, and although he mostly looked like himself ( a handsome face with fearsome eyes), patches of dark scales broke out across his face. He must have been making an effort not to change completely. He licked his lips and the tongue that did the licking was long and thin, forked at the end. “Get on with it, angel.”

Aziraphale swallowed, eyes flicking left and right to match the darting movements of the tongue. “Why did you have to be a snake? Of all the creatures. Why couldn’t you be something unintimidating, like a - a vole or…”

Crowley rolled his eyes and plucked Aziraphale’s hand off the arm of the chair. “You’re _lucky_ I’m not shy about these things.” and ran his tongue along Aziraphale’s hand.

A feather-light touch, barely there and yet leaving a thin trail of saliva behind. Aziraphale looked down at his hand and then up into Crowley’s eyes. “Yes, that’s - that’s a very long tongue you have.”

“All the better to kiss you with.” Crowley said, leaning in, his lips falling into a pout.

Fortunately, some rare strain of self-preservation rushed through Aziraphale’s veins, prompting him to throw out his arm just before their lips could meet, and caught hold of Crowley’s face, his fingers lightly digging into Crowley’s cheeks. “Kiss you? Crowley, no. What’s got into you?”

“Nothing yet, but we can change that-” He tried to lean closer, even with the angel’s fingers forming a cage around his face.

“No! I don’t - we’re not supposed to do...that.”

“ _ Why?  _ Why ever not? How many times do I have to tell you, we’re not bound to Hell and Heaven anymore. Those bastards don’t exist to us anymore. There’s just you and me, getting smashed and having a good time.”

“We’re not, as you put it, smashed. A little merry, perhaps, but-”

“We were merry two bottles ago. Look, Aziraphale,” Crowley brought up his hands to curl over the angel’s hands. “They don’t care what we do. They’re not looking. If you want to spend your existence worrying about what they think of you, then it will be just that, an existence. Not a life. Not a human life.”

He knew Crowley was right. And he’d be lying if he’d never thought of doing such a thing. But...

“Kissing always seemed so…” Aziraphale smiled and gave a little self-conscious shrug. “I wouldn’t even know how to do it.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and Aziraphale felt himself getting dragged into the depths of them, the air choked out of his lungs. Breathing seemed to be a luxury right now. “I’ll teach you, angel.”   
  


All he had to do was tilt his head up, draw his lips into a pout so that they met Crowley’s.

A second later, he found himself doing exactly that.

Crowley’s lips were warm and dry, hard when they pressed against his and soft when they opened, that clever, forked tongue unravelling to wrap around Aziraphale’s. Heavens, the demon was so graceful in everything that he did. His tongue dancing, his fingers curling in Aziraphale’s hair. 

Crowley kissed him deeply, his tongue roaming, licking up the textured roof. Aziraphale let himself be swept up in sensations, the feeling on an experienced tongue dominating his mouth, strong fingers tangling themselves in his hair. He could touch Crowley back. He could be brave and reach for his chest or his legs, perhaps something else if he felt very brave. But that’s not what this was about. This was about kissing, his first kiss and he was fine with just taking all Crowley had to give him. And he was certain Crowley was more than fine with that arrangement too.

Eventually, Crowley pulled off. Aziraphale supposed he had to stop eventually, not that either of them particularly needed to take an inhale of breath.

Crowley smiled down at him, and up close, it was even lovelier than all the little smiles he’d sent Aziraphale’s way over the centuries.

“So, angel? Was that okay for you? Do you...think you like kissing?”   
“My dear, I think I like kissing very much. But I’ve only had one kiss, perhaps I should have more so I can make an informed decis-”

Crowley growled and reached for him again.


	5. Dream A Little Dream Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale watches Crowley sleep. Crowley seems to be dreaming of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t uploaded anything for a little while because my mother is in the hospital. :(  
Oh, and it’s my birthday today! So have this little chapter as my birthday present you, haha! Drop a comment if you like it!

It had been a lovely evening, filled with wine and laughter, silly banter and a box of chocolates Crowley had presented to him, in an off-handed sort of way, staring at his shoes when Aziraphale had enthusiastically thanked him.

But now, as evening crept into the night, Aziraphale sat in his armchair, quietly reading, while Crowley snoozed on his sofa. How lovely to know Crowley trusted him, to let him sit with his slumbering body, while the hours passed by.

Crowley’s chest gently rose and fell with each shallow breath that his body didn’t even need. His eyelids flickered, that lethal golden gaze shuttered by the pale flaps of skin. He must be dreaming. Occasionally, his foot would jiggle, where it hung off the end of Aziraphale’s sofa, or his fingers would twitch.

His face never looked so calm as it did when he was sleeping. How Aziraphale envied him.

To completely shut off your mind and succumb to sleep. Aziraphale fancied it was like sinking into a hot bath, a delicious warmth travelling up your body until you melt like butter, sinking into the sheets, your mattress curling around your back. He liked all the extra time he got at night, he could catch up on his reading, unhindered by those awful customers who would grab for his books like toddlers with their nasty, grabby hands and ask him silly questions about  _ pricing _ and  _ opening hours, _ of all things. But he was curious. Why did Crowley like sleeping so much? Why did he even do it at all? He could assume it was some demon thing, sinning for the sake of it, sloth and all that. But then, Crowley wasn’t a typical demon. Did all demons sleep or was it just Crowley?

Aziraphale peeked over his book at his friend’s sleeping form. “No, my dear,” he murmured. “You certainly are  _ not  _ a typical demon.”

He returned to his book, and was quite startled to hear Crowley mumble, a few minutes later, “Angel,”

He removed his spectacles. “Crowley?” He wasn’t sure whether to whisper or speak normally, so he compromised by whispering the first syllable and saying the second one in his usual volume. He winced at his own voice in the quiet room, but there was no response from the demon.

Crowley said something again but it was incomprehensible. Aziraphale abandoned his book, now slightly concerned and padded over for a closer look.

He might have felt like he was intruding on something sacred if Crowley hadn’t made it so perfectly clear that he was happy to let Aziraphale into his life. Whether it was in his Bentley, by his side taking in some local entertainment or anything else, the two of them were firmly enmeshed. He valued their friendship and Crowley’s easy acceptance of him.

So he drew closer, footsteps measured and deliberate, and dropped to a crouch beside the sofa. 

Crowley lay, lanky limbs contorted in a position that would probably lead to a dislocated shoulder if Aziraphale attempted it. Perhaps it was some serpentine quirk or just another one of Crowley’s idiosyncrasies, but he seemed unable to sit or lie on a piece of furniture without spreading his limbs widely, occupying as much space as possible, in fact, a surprising amount of space for such a thin body. 

His eyes followed the line of that body, the long, thin legs, the narrow chest that rose and fell, the beautifully long fingers. They were the fingers of a locksmith or a pianist, so slim and elegant, not like Aziraphale’s own stubby digits. They were the hands that had knitted together galaxies. 

How many times had he stared at those hands? When Crowley would fall into step beside him, slowing down the stride of those impossibly long legs so that Aziraphale didn’t have to hurry to keep up with him. And walking, walking on cobblestone streets or slick pavement, an occasional swing of one’s arms would cause their hand to bump against the other’s hand. And when it happened, he would flinch, a little, tucking his own hand into his jacket pocket for fear of another careless collision but each time it happened, Aziraphale would wonder what would happen if he took hold of Crowley’s hand, interlocked their fingers, hands swinging together as they walked. Would he give him a questioning glance? Would he smile? Would he even notice? The only thing Aziraphale was sure Crowley wouldn’t do would be to rip his hand out of Aziraphale’s with disgust. He was far too kind for that. No, he’d reject him kindly. And Aziraphale’s heart would break once more.

His own fingers were hovering over Crowley’s, he wanted nothing more than to touch that hand. He couldn’t remember when he last had. He supposed they must have shaken hands once, it was the polite thing to do, but he was sure they hadn’t in Eden, and that was where they met, so…

He could hold his hand now. Just for a few seconds. Crowley wouldn’t even know he’d done it...

He was bolstering up his resolve, squashing down any apprehension or guilt, his fingers twitching towards their prize when-

“Angel,” Crowley said again.

Oh crumbs, he was rumbled. No, wait, no he wasn’t. Yes, Crowley had spoken, a rough mutter that sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine but he was perfectly still, relaxed, as it had been before. One arm slung over his head and one leg was thrown over the arm of the sofa.

Still peacefully dreaming. _ Dreaming of me? _ he wondered, perhaps a little smugly.

He didn’t judge the demon for that. Aziraphale knew that if he could sleep, all he’d dream of is Crowley.

Oh, Crowley, Crowley. Sprawled on a sofa too small for him, smiling gently in his sleep, murmuring his special nickname for Aziraphale. 

He wondered what his dream counterpart was like, what it was doing to trigger such a pretty smile. 

“Mmm…” One of Crowley’s incoherent sounds, not even a word, really. Such a familiar gesture made Aziraphale grin, and he was quite unprepared for the next utterance. “ _ Fuck, _ ”

When Crowley had sworn in the past, Aziraphale had (on more than one occasion) threatened to wash his mouth out with soap and water. But that was in the daytime, and usually, something had provoked his bad language, an interaction with a rude human, getting cut off in traffic. This, however, was different. That powerful word, low, husky, dragged from Crowley’s throat with the fall of his chest, it seemed to hold a different meaning this time. Something charged and dangerous.

He slowly exhaled, realising too late, he was still bent over Crowley and that little puff of air had wafted across Crowley’s face. Crowley’s nose twitched adorably, and he rolled over in his sleep, mercifully remaining unconscious. He was under so much stress, he needed his rest.

But now, that beautiful face was turned away from him and all the angel could see was auburn hair and a deliciously pale nape. He was trying to be gentlemanly, so although his eyes longed to dart down to commit the sight of Crowley’s perfeclty-shaped backside to memory, he kept his gaze fixed on the back of the demon’s head. Or rather, he did until Crowley started  _ moving. _

He initially thought his friend was trying to get comfortable on the cramped sofa, until he realised the rhythm of his movements, a very deliberate gyration of the hips, meant he was already comfortable, perhaps too comfortable.

Crowley was making sounds, quiet grunts so quiet they barely left the tongue, sounds Aziraphale wished he could feel vibrate upon his lips. A cushion, which had been wedged against the small of Crowley’s back in his original position, had now travelled down the sofa to rest by Crowley’s crotch, and it was this he rocked against, small, shallow thrusts in his sleep, still murmuring lovely sounds of contentment.

He longed to rip that pillow away and replace it with his hand.

Crowley gave a final grunt and his rocking stopped, he curled up, cat-like, around the cushion, pulling it to himself like it was a treasured teddy bear.

Aziraphale silently got to his feet, settling back in his seat, with his book open on his lap. He had the distinct impression he had witnessed something not meant for him, and he rather felt like he was being punished for his nosiness. Because if Crowley indeed had been dreaming of him, did he genuinely desire him? Or was it chance that Aziraphale had starred in his dreams? It’s not like Crowley had any other friends he spoke to on a regular basis. Yes, Aziraphale thought to himself as he gazed down at a book he had no desire to continue reading. He rather wished he hadn’t watched Crowley sleep because now, forevermore, he would be plagued by thoughts of those rocking hips and that quiet murmur... "Angel..."


	6. Crowley Wings It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing kink. I can't believe I wrote this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about wings so a lot of this is artistic licence.

The room was warm, lit by the orange glow of the log fire. Crowley’s new favourite way to relax was to curl up, catlike, in an armchair and watch the orange glare through half-lidded eyes, lulled to sleep by the hazy heat. He liked their cottage, it was small but then, it didn’t need to be terribly big; Aziraphale still kept the majority of his books back at his bookshop, albeit with a permanent CLOSED sign on the door. The cottage was sort of a mix of both their styles, dark carpets and light walls, old wood and metal light fixtures. He didn’t care where they stayed, they could camp out in a phonebox for all he cared, so long as they were together. Ugh, what a sanctimonious thought. Perhaps Aziraphale was a bigger influence on him than he thought. Although he supposed, as he watched Aziraphale lick the lip of his wineglass, there were worse role models around.

He genuinely enjoyed tempting humans, causing mayhem, as long as it was fun. But this lazy retirement suited him well. They’d shop, eat, take a walk and breathe in the clean, country air, then return home for a glass of wine or three, perhaps Aziraphale would have a piece of cake. Then off to their bedrooms, Crowley to sleep, Aziraphale to...do whatever he did in lieu of sleeping. Read, most probably.

Of course, there were other nocturnal-but-not-sleeping things Crowley would like to do with his housemate, but if it hadn’t happened in six thousand years, it probably wasn’t going to happen. And he was fine with that. Just dandy.

* * *

They’d been talking and drinking for hours now. Crowley felt warm and sleepy and stupid, his stomach full of wine, aware of it sloshing inside him but he didn’t sober up, he liked the feeling. That all-is-right-with-the-world feeling.

As he glanced across at his friend, he remembered another upside of cohabiting with him. He got to see Aziraphale in less than his usual jacket over a waistcoat over a shirt (probably over a vest). Here, Aziraphale wore a cream tartan dressing gown, yes, it was thick and fluffy and hid every delicious curve, but the collar was down and if Crowley leant forward slightly, he could catch just a glimpse of Aziraphale’s pale soft chest, and a smattering of downy blond hairs.

Thank Satan, Aziraphale was drunk. He probably wouldn’t take kindly to Crowley staring at him the way he stared at a sherry trifle.

Aziraphale hiccupped and to Crowley’s amusement, with a soft  _ whoosh, _ the angel’s wings erupted from his back, pushing the dressing gown away. It was still fastened securely around his waist though, Crowley wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Your...your things have come out…” he said, chuckling as Aziraphale turned his head to see the great mass of twitching white feathers behind him.

“Oh bother! I can’t - need to put them back-”

“I’ll help you,” Crowley pushed down on the sofa, hauling himself up in a standing position. The room seemed to swim, the colours blending together, but he determinedly placed one foot in front of the other, manipulating his legs until he drew close to the angel. Damn, it was so hard to operate this body, how do bipeds do it?

He reached Aziraphale and staggered a little, grabbing hold of his friend’s shoulder for balance.

“I’m gon- put your wings, hang on,” he said.

“What? No, Crowley, ‘m tick - ticklish-” Aziraphale started, raising a hand to feebly brush at Crowley’s shirt, but Crowley had already reached forward and grabbed hold of the feathers.

Soft ribbons of white danced in his eyes and he felt the urge to rub his face against the magnificent plumage, so he did.

Soft, softer than any human creation, the feathers caressed his cheek and he nuzzled them absently until he became aware of a beautiful sound: Aziraphale’s laughter.

High-pitched peals of laughter that made something in him, possibly some dormant shred of humanity lift its head and scent the air. 

“S’okay, ‘m helpin’ you,” he murmured, gripping at the slippery soft feathers again. 

“No, Crowley, don’t-” Aziraphale said, but he was laughing again, and kicking out his legs as tears ran down his cheeks, and Crowley couldn’t help the bubbles of his own laughter floating up his throat.

“S’nice,” he whispered, tugging on a feather, idly watching it jump about in his grip, sliding over his knuckles. “Soft…”

Aziraphale had stopped laughing and was now content to sit back, his eyes closed, letting Crowley run his hands up and down the wings. “Feels good, mmm, soothing…”

Well, now, he didn’t want to stop, because Aziraphale was there, compliant, relaxed and with a serene smile on his face, letting his wings gently fan out so Crowley could stroke them. Aziraphale’s face was normally creased in concern or fear, occasionally anger but now, it was smooth and untroubled, even the amusement of the tickling had ceased. He was totally calm and Crowley was making him that calm. Demons didn’t do that kind of thing, they were better suited to causing havoc. It was different but he liked it.

Crowley leaned forward, rubbing both wings with his hands, working his way up each one until he reached the bones growing out of the angel’s back.

Aziraphale’s groans of pleasure deepened into something throatier the closer he got to the base.

The demon doubled his efforts, bent over the squirming angel. The barbs of each wing were strong yet flexible, they bent under his forceful ministrations, like birch, supple and smooth. They hardened into the calamus, the strong bone root of each wing that disappeared into his back. He scratched gently at the skin that puckered around each wing-bone, and Aziraphale murmured something in appreciation. Crowley wondered how it must feel, he’d never had this done to him. His wings, if Aziraphale had seen them. Crowley had always admired catching sight in the peripheral vision of his long, red curls against the clean whiteness of his wings. He hadn’t known then that he was going to Fall. Aziraphale’s wings were so pretty. He hoped they’d never blacken.

Aziraphale tried to sit up, grasping the back of the armchair and Crowley’s hands slipped, accidentally, to his lower back, and he paused. This was the closest they’d ever been. Even when Aziraphale was drunk and stumbling, clinging on to Crowley for support and Crowley had thrown a steadying arm around his back, his skin had only met fabric. This, what he was touching now, was flesh. Warm, soft flesh, that quivered under his touch, skin so different from Crowley’s gaunt body. He wanted to knead it like dough, rake his nails over it, bite it and lick. Cup it and squeeze with both hands, test its elasticity. The wings were still there, cramped and pushing against the fabric of the dressing gown, and he knew there was something he was supposed to be doing with them, but perhaps he was drunker than first thought, and besides, Aziraphale seemed content to let him explore. He’d never seen him like this, never felt him like this. So soft and relaxed, so  _ trusting. _ He felt honoured.

His questing hands bumped up against something at the base of the angels’ back, two small, hard nubs and he recognised them as his wings’ uropygial glands, for Crowley had them himself. He knew from his own experience that a flaw of angel forms were the oil glands, they could get impacted, full of preen oil and cause discomfort. Crowley would sometimes reach behind himself in the shower and massage them, to provide some relief. He supposed Aziraphale didn’t do this, and as his fingers handled the glands, he felt the desire to help him. He rolled the nubs between two fingers, they were but stubbornly hard, he couldn’t see them but expected they were the same pleasant peach tone of Aziraphale’s skin. 

Aziraphale groaned, slumping back in his chair, which Crowley took as an encouraging sign. He forced his knees on either side of Aziraphale’s thick thighs, so he could straddle him, his legs were cramping up from standing. This was easier, he could bend over and reach his arms down, although still constrained by Aziraphale’s dressing gown.

He squeezed the fleshy nubs again, trying not to think of how Aziraphale’s chest was so damn close to his, and the glands felt rather like nipples. He could feel greasy preen oil leaking out, coating his fingers, and he smiled a small smile of satisfaction as Aziraphale let out a little gasp of relief. He knew it would help. Aziraphale looked the picture of pleasure, lounging back in his chair, arching his back under Crowley’s hands. Aziraphale pushed his hips up and something unmistakably hard pressed against Crowley’s crotch. Crowley froze. That was...new. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale gasped and finally opened those beautiful eyes. He looked absolutely wrecked. “ _ Please, _ ”

Crowley nodded, and leaning on the back of the chair for balance, tentatively brushed his thigh against the meeting of Aziraphale legs. Aziraphale enthusiastically pushed back, drunkenly, selfishly but Crowley loved him for his selfishness. He wanted to give, he wanted Aziraphale to take, to feed. Crowley wanted to be something that could satisfy him.

Aziraphale’s hands grabbed Crowley’s thigh, burning hot through his jeans, and guided his leg to Aziraphale’s tenting dressing gown. Crowley could have put both hands on Aziraphale’s cock, he wanted to, but there was still preen oil to work out of him, so he put his hands back at Aziraphale’s tailbone and pinched the glands as the angel rutted against his thigh. The dressing gown couldn’t hold up from so much movement and it fell open, and there he was. Crowley looked down, at his cock, a perfectly even colour, and the pale-blond curls, the length pinkening at the tip. Hard. for him. He desired so strongly to take it in his hand, in his mouth. Lick and lap at it. Savour it. He pushed down particularly hard on the oil glands and fluid leaked over his fingers. Aziraphale grabbed at Crowley’s thigh again, humping it with desperation, and soon, he was coming, moaning, his face buried in Crowley’s shirt. One thing Crowley regretted was wearing jeans, they were too thick to feel Aziraphale’s hot come spraying out on his leg, but he took one hand off Aziraphale’s back and caressed his own thigh with his fingers, scooping up the hot, sticky fluid, mingling with the oil.

Aziraphale’s breathing was still heavy as he sat, dressing gown open for all to see. His wings had gracefully folded back in of their own accord, funny in a way. Crowley was panting too, his jeans uncomfortably tight. Aziraphale’s eyes were closed and already, he was slumping back in his seat, loling a bit to the side, drunkenness easing him into a stupor. Perhaps this would be Aziraphale’s first successful sleep. 

Crowley wiped his fingers on the back of his jeans. He debated cleaning Aziraphale up, but he rather liked the idea of him lying there, dressing gown exposing him, covered in spunk and oil. He watched him a few minutes, then sighed and sloped off to fetch a wet towel.


End file.
